


Wild One

by imaginationtherapy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Appalachia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Many of them, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Fiction, Original Male Character - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pennsylvania, Pittsburgh, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Self-Esteem Issues, almost everyone is queer, irregular updates, twists and turns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:40:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29465907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy
Summary: Detective Wesley Emmerson left his home town in central Pennsylvannia to escape a house that never felt like home. He soon finds himself a friend in the local forensic pathologist, a father-figure in his Sergeant, and a career that keeps him busy.Then the hospital hires a new pathologist, a sharp-witted and sharp-tongued young doctor who dresses --and acts -- like a radical hippie from the 1970s. They set out to make sure Emmerson is fed and taken care of and he isn't quite sure what to do with their mothering.Before he knows it, he's been sucked into Delle's world and a wicked string of difficult cases.When a local cop-killer set her sights on Emmerson, will Adelaide be able to safe him, or will he be lost forever?





	1. Life is Hard (That's all Right)

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? Another original story? While I still have...so many incompletes? Oops!
> 
> This story began as a self-insert into the Endeavour Morse world. I decided that I really liked Adelaide as a character, and wanted to turn this more into her story, rather than Morse's story. You probably will recognise some characters and their interactions with Emmerson. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, whoever you might be who has stumbled upon this work. :-)
> 
> Note: Adelaide uses they/them and she/her pronouns.

Wesley Emerson tried to prop himself up on Max Turner’s door frame after knocking. The world was beginning to spin, and he vaguely thought maybe he should have listened to Sergeant Connolly’s admonition to eat something earlier. Come to think of it, he couldn’t quite remember the last time he had eaten. No matter, at least he had figured out who killed the gardner and the girlfriend.  _ God, that sounds so cliche, something the papers would print _ . He shook his head, hoping to clear the darkness infringing on his reasoning and his peripherals, but succeeding only in making the door frame appear slightly off kilter. He congratulated himself on having made the decision to stop by. Connolly would be proud that he admitted his weaknesses,, Max wouldn’t mind, and he was beginning to think he really might not have made it home. The door opened, and Emerson attempted to straighten up. The ground, however, rebelliously lurched sideways, and he nearly fell through the door. He was caught by...not Turner? A woman? A woman in Max’s house?

“Detective Emmerson? Good heavens!” The voice, definitely female, sounded strangely familiar, but the room was a bit too hazy for him to make an identification. Maybe if he sat down, for just a moment, he might be able to puzzle this out.

“I’m...I’m looking...Max...Doctor Turner...friend…” Emmerson didn’t think he was making much sense, but words seemed hard to find. The woman didn’t respond, she seemed intent on getting him in the direction of what should be Max’s couch. Emmerson wondered if he was accidentally interrupting a romantic evening, as the room seemed to be dimly lit by candles. He tried to compose himself as he sat down, but managed only to narrowly escape falling off of the couch.

“Detective, can you hear me? Emmerson? Are you…” He thought the woman was talking to him, but he couldn’t quite hear her. Emmerson attempted to sit up, so that he could hear her better. His overworked and underfed body refused to comply, and he felt himself slip into unconsciousness. 

* * *

With thier hands on thier hips, Adelaide Eckels stared down at the lanky, redheaded man on the couch. “I told Max one of these days, someone was going to show up and ask questions.” They huffed in laughter. They really hadn’t expected it to be the most awkward detective in the entire precinct. “Well, Detective Emmerson, what exactly happened to you?” 

They bent down, checking Emmerson for any obvious injuries. The man was well known for hiding things and working through sickness and injury. Discovering nothing obviously wrong, they checked his pulse. Weaker than it should be, but from what they knew of the way Emmerson threw himself into work, that was normal. 

“Probably haven’t slept in days and only coffee for sustenance.” Adelaide sighed and shook their head. “I’m not sure the Cauldy murder needed that much of you.”

They straightened up, face softening as they stared down at the detective in front of her. Lonely, prickly, arrogant--but brilliant. He was wise and kind-hearted, from what they had seen, though he tried to hide his softer side. He was clearly wounded, in a way that reminded them of their own past. 

He looked younger like this, far younger than his 32 years. He seemed vulnerable when he couldn’t keep up his tough facade. They reached over him, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and tucking it around him. 

“You need some mothering, detective.” They grinned mischievously. “I like to think I could give your Sgt. Connolly a run for his money.” 

* * *

Emmerson climbed his way back to consciousness slowly, first becoming aware of the sounds of cooking and...singing? A woman, singing. He smiled,  _ Meredith _ . Then his memories came back to him, and with them, a wave of sadness he thought he had sealed away deep inside.  _ Not Meredith; never Meredith. _ Briefly, he considered not opening his eyes, letting himself drift off again, maybe forever, into a place devoid of  _ not Meredith _ . His natural inquisitiveness took over, however, in the face of the question  _ not Meredith but who? _ There was a strange woman in his friend’s house. Max Turner, who he had  _ thought _ to be a confirmed bachelor. With a sigh, he cracked an eye open.

The woman hovered over something on the stove, her back to the couch and Emmerson. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her from somewhere, though the glimpse he caught of her brightly colored, flowing dress --  _ did they call those maxi-dresses? _ He couldn’t be sure -- and long caramel-blond hair gave him no clues. It wasn’t until she turned around, bearing two cups of tea, that he recognized the jade green eyes sparkling behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Dr. Eckels?” he croaked, trying desperately to reconcile the bright dress, cheerful smile and long, loose hair to the acerbic attitude, dark trousers and French twist the pathologist usually wore. And...they were in  _ Turner’s house _ ? At 10 o’clock at night? 

Their smile twitched into a smirk, and Emmerson found equilibrium in the familiar skeptical look they gave him. “Tell you what, Detective Emmerson. If you drink your tea, I’ll answer any questions you have.” They set the tea down next to him, vanishing to the kitchen again. They returned with a bowl, and another genuine smile. “And, if you eat all of your stew, you may call me ‘Delle.”


	2. She's a Wild One (With an Angel's Face)

Emmerson had been looking forward to his trip down to the morgue. Well, not to the morgue itself, but to the man who could usually be found, bent in odd fascination over his latest “patient”. Over the several years Emmerson had been working with Doctor Max Turner, they had become quite good friends. He always looked forward to the strains of Max’s latest favorite bluegrass band and a solid conversation about what types of vegetables could be properly grown in a porch-less Pittsburgh apartment.

Emmerson had about as friends at the precinct as he had had in high school, a grand total of one and a half. He had as much trouble now as then with social niceties and fitting into the “good ol’ boys club.” He had hoped, in a city like this, to be accepted for who he was, but few cops appreciated his tailored suits and patterned ties. In Max he found a kindred outcast: another well put together man, a gardener, a man as interested in music and fabric as mysteries and corpses. 

Expecting to find a familiar pair of lavender scrubs bending over their corpse, Emmerson was instantly wrong-footed by the decidedly feminine figure he found instead.

The stranger wore a typical white physician’s coat, but instead of Max’s light lavendar scrubs, Emmerson could see a dark purple scrub top with a paisley print. Brown scrub pants extended from beneath the gurney, below which shiny brown boots could be seen. The woman was leaning against a back counter, clutching a tin mug of some steaming liquid (it smelled vaguely of cinnamon...tea perhaps?), hovering on the edge of taking a sip, and staring intently at the corpse in front of her. Her eyebrows were drawn together over a pair of delicate wire-rimmed glasses. As Emmerson struggled to avoid looking at the corpse and to comprehend a woman in Turner’s lair, the... _ pathologist? _ ...took a sip of her tea and sighed sharply. Emmerson startled at the sudden noise, and the woman looked up at him.

Startlingly large and vibrant green eyes pinned Emmerson where he stood. Without moving the mug from her lips, she raised an eyebrow at Emmerson. 

“Can I help you,” she growled. It was a statement, not a question, and Emmerson found himself completely at a loss for words..

“Er, Detective Emmerson. I was looking for Doctor Turner, Miss…?” Emmerson winced slightly at the obvious bewilderment in his tone.

“ _ Doctor _ Eckels,” she corrected. She took another sip of her tea before setting it down carefully behind her, away from her “patient”. “Max said you might be coming by, Detective Emmerson. Let me find the file he left for you.” 

She turned to search a shelf above her head. Emmerson noted that her caramel-blonde hair was drawn into a french twist... and that there appeared to be a pen stuck in the middle of it. “Ah, here it is.” She handed him a manilla folder. “Should you have any questions, I can answer them. Max reviewed the case with me before he left.” She turned away, seeking her mug.

Emmerson took the file, still utterly uncertain of why this...Doctor Eckels...was in Max Turner’s morgue, handing out reports and apparently completing autopsies. He had a slight moment of panic, wondering if the woman in front of him was an imposter trying to steal bodies. His questions must have shown on his face.

“Kemp retired two weeks ago, and with the merger, there was need of an extra pathologist,” Dr. Eckels explained. “Apparently there weren’t many vying for the position since they condescended to hire a woman.” She took a sip of her tea, issuing a challenge to Emmerson by way of her raised eyebrow.

Glancing down at the file, Emmerson made a noncommittal noise and turned to leave. “Well, thanks for the file. Will Turner be back tomorrow?”

“Yes.” She stared at him for several seconds, before returning her eyes to the table. “If you decide that you are actually curious about the results, you know where to find me. If it appears that catching your killer can wait a day, feel free to return when you can discuss the results with someone you respect.” 

Emmerson stopped abruptly, startled at the sudden chill in the woman’s tone. “No disrespect, ma’am--”

“Doctor.” She snapped. She narrowed her eyes at him, studying him as if he were on the gurney waiting to be autopsied. “Detective Sergeant Emmerson.” She emphasized each word in a way that suggested his reputation preceded him. She took a swift sip of tea and banged her mug on the counter. “Max likes you, so I shall give you a reprieve. Mind, if I hand you my own autopsy, I expect you to direct your questions to me. There will be no going around me, playing favorites with your preferred  _ male _ pathologist, and you may very well pass that on back at the precinct. Turner and I have trained at the same school and bear the same credentials. Whichever of us shows at a scene is the one you lot have to deal with.” She paused, and something akin to amusement flitted across her face for a moment. “Off with you now, and don’t look so pale.” She snapped on a pair of gloves and returned to her corpse, leaving Emmerson to hastily retreat to his car.

* * *

Emmerson returned to the morgue early the next morning, anxious to ask Max a few questions regarding the Cauldy’s deceased gardener, and about this Doctor Eckels. But as he neared the entrance to the examination room, he could hear raised voices--one male and one decidedly female. 

“I have told you before, Adelaide, you can’t have  _ tea _ in my morgue,” Max was admonishing, sounding as frustrated as Emmerson had ever heard.

“And I have told  _ you _ , if I have to put up with your system of organization, my dear Turner, I will indeed have tea!” Eckels illustrated her point by raising her tin mug in the air defiantly. She glanced towards the door, and he saw her lips quirk into the same sarcastic smile as yesterday. “You’d best go see to your detective, Max. I do believe I startled him, aud lang syne.” She turned away from Emmerson without another glance, ignoring Turner’s irritated stare. 

Max pushed through the doors, motioning Emmerson into his office. “I fear I must apologize for my colleague. She’s had a rough time with transferring in, and may have taken her ire out on you.” 

“I wasn’t the most gracious, I suppose. I was expecting you.” Emmerson tugged on his earlobe.

“‘Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed’, or, as it were, startled.” Emmerson allowed an amused smile to tug at his lips at Max’s lapse into quotations. “At any rate, you’ll be needing to get used to her. And possibly warn the others. She’s been brought in to help with the extra case load since the merger. It will be one or the other of us at any given time.”

Emmerson gave dubious snort. “I can’t imagine that will go smoothly.”

Max shrugged. “She’s no stranger to battles, that one, and not one to willingly back down.” He paused, glancing at Emmerson over his glasses with a slight smile. “You may find yourself a rival, in who can put the most backs up at one go.”

“At least you have had practice, working with the difficult,” Emmerson retorted, with a self-deprecating smile.

“Indeed.” Max nodded his head in assent, a strange glint of amusement in his eyes. He studied Emmerson for a moment and Emmerson was reminded unpleasantly of the surgical examination Doctor Eckels had given him yesterday. “Emmerson…” Max began hesitantly. “If I may….I trust her abilities as nearly equal to mine. Lacking experience in years but making up for it with a quick mind.”

Emmerson read between the lines and nodded. “I won’t give her any trouble.”

Satisfied, Turner smiled. “Now, shall we turn to the recently deceased?”

“Liam Davis, former gardener to the Cauldy family. Reported missing three days ago. The PC on the case called us in as a sudden death.”

“Few people choose head trauma as a means of suicide and skulls do not fracure themselves,” Turner replied dryly. 

“I gathered as much from the report. Could he have acquired those injuries had he slipped?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. The fracture occurred on the top edge of the occipital plate, near the left lambdoid suture. Erm, about here,” Max gestured to the back of his head, behind his left ear. “The crushed section is too small to have come from contact with the floor--that would have destroyed the entirety of the plate--and not sharp enough to have come from the edge of a counter. ”

“Likely struck, then?” Emmerson filled in.

Max nodded. “If I were to wager a guess, I’d put my money on someone a bit shorter than him. Here,” Max picked up a book lying on his desk and moved behind Emmerson. “The angle suggests the hit came from below.” The doctor brought the book up slowly to touch the back of Emmerson’s head just below his right ear.

“I thought you said it was on the left?”

“Ah, yes. Someone with a propensity towards left-handedness. We tend to give in to such preferences. A right handed person will strike on the right, and so on.”

“Really, Max, trying to murder a copper in the morgue is not the wisest decision.” 

Emmerson jumped, spinning to find the new pathologist observing them. She looked to be hiding an amused smile behind her mug. 

Turner huffed, unamused. “Demonstrations serve the same purpose as words, only more visceral.” He moved around to his desk, ignoring his collegue. “I’m afraid that’s all I have for you, Emmerson. The injury would have left some mark on whatever caused it.”

Emmerson nodded, crossing his arms in thought. “Thanks. I’ll check around his flat.” He turned to leave, nodding to Doctor Eckels as he passed. He did his best to ignore the amusement playing about the corner of her mouth. 

* * *

Word got around quickly about the new pathologist working under Turner, and that word was not favorable. The addition of a woman so comfortable with blood and bone and gruesome crime scenes was an affront to a precinct dominated by men. Emmerson hated the fact that the precinct seemed stuck in the 1950s sometimes, with its views on women in the force and it’s opinions on  _ anyone _ who wasn’t clearly cisgender and hetrosexual. 

The problem with Doctor Eckles wasn’t just that she was a woman. It seemed that she was more than willing to confront and call out  _ any _ of the detectives she encountered. She’d already gotten into a verbal fight with three detectives and two Sergeants. She’d thrown at least four uniformed cops off of crime scenes, demanding that they learn how to correctly process a homicide before they returned.

She had been working with the precinct for a week.

Emmerson did his best to ignore the gossip floating about. He wasn’t quite sure he approved of the fractious new pathologist, but he had promised Max to give her no trouble. Still, respecting her profession and actively supporting her were a long ways apart, and he had a murder to solve. He tried to avoid the topic, until Connolly asked him pointedly about the woman.

“I heard you were the first to rub shoulders with the new pathologist,” Connolly broached casually one morning. He lit his pipe and studied Emmerson, who simply shrugged. “Come on, kid, what are you thinking?”

“There’s not much to say.” Emmerson shrugged. “She handed me a file and I left.” Lying by omission was easier,  _ that _ Emmerson had learned a  _ long _ time ago.

“That’s all, then?” Connolly prodded, clearly convinced otherwise.

Emmerson rubbed his ear nervously. “She was a bit miffed that I asked after Turner.”

“Oh?”

“She warned me off of any notions I had of prejudice should she show up at a crime scene,” Emmerson explained, a bit more acidic than he had intended. “She’s rather direct.” Connolly nodded thoughtfully but remained silent as if waiting for Emmerson to continue. “Turner said the same, though a bit more obliquely.”

“Your opinion, then?”

Emmerson shifted uneasily. He hadn’t actually formed one yet. “I’m not sure how I feel about...her. But I don’t have much to go on. She certainly seems willing and able to hold her own.” He shrugged, coming to a decision rather abruptly. “It’s a bit unfair to go hurling insults before she’s actually accomplished anything.” 

“Right. Well, this’ll cause a stir, no doubt. Let’s just hope she’s as good as Turner, or she’ll be run out of town faster than you can say go.” Connolly stood. “Let’s run out and see about that Davis case.”

* * *

Two days later they received a call from the Cauldy family estate. It seemed the new gardener, hired after Liam Davis’ demise, had found a body in a shed near the edge of the property. No one seemed to know how long it had been there, but the new gardener had quit on the spot. Emmerson was dispatched to the scene to determine whether or not the death was suspicious. He approached one of the uniforms on scene, surprised to find that Turner had not yet arrived.

“What have we got, then?” Emmerson asked the man, carefully avoiding the open shed door.

“Gardener found her this morning, ‘bout an hour ago,” the young PC responded. “Went to open the shed to look for some fancy tool, nearly stepped on her.”

Emmerson grimaced at the visual. “A woman?”

“Near as we can tell. Dress and all. That’s ‘bout all that’s recognizable.” 

“Was the shed locked, then?” Emmerson tried his best to ignore the man’s tendency towards sensationalism. 

The man nodded. “No one had any reason to come ‘round here, he said. Just kept tools locked in here for the roses. Less distance to carry them, he said.”

Emmerson turned to study the roses and the nearby ground. He’d need to talk to the Cauldy family. Two deaths connected to their estate was pushing the boundaries of coincidence.

“Ah. Sawbones is here.  _ Miss _ Sawbones, I suppose.” 

Emmerson whipped around as he heard the man’s derisive tone, wincing as he realized what the man meant. Doctor Eckels. This was the first time he had dealt with her personally on a call. He pulled himself to his full height and rounded on the PC. He had promised Max, after all.

“That’s  _ Doctor _ Eckels to you,” he growled. 

Emmerson tried to hide his own displeasure at the sight of the assistant home office pathologist as he turned from the gaping uniform beside him. Giving her a chance to prove herself was one thing, but he had been hoping for the familiarity of Turner for this corpse. Trying to explain his involuntary aversion to gore wasn’t something he was very practiced at; most “explanations” followed either teasing or unconsciousness. He watched her warily as she was directed his way by the PC at the road. Impeccably dressed, as usual, in black slacks and paisley yellow scrub top and sporting her classic french twist accessorized with a pen. 

“Sergeant Emmerson, you’ve picked a good day for a murder. Not too rainy, not too hot.” she greeted him. She inclined her head in the direction of the corpse. “Shall we?” 

“Doctor, I might warn you, it’s not the prettiest…” Emmerson trailed off as fire flared unexpectedly in her eyes. He realized too late that his personal reluctance had been mistaken as an insult to her abilities.

“I assure you, Sergeant, I have seen far worse. This is decidedly not my first corpus.” She eyed him critically for a moment, before a touch of amusement flashed in her eyes “Besides, ‘ why should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear that which cannot exist when I do?’”

By the time Emmerson had recovered from having Epicurus used against him, the doctor was already at the door of the shed. He hurried after her, attempting to catch the observations she was narrating as she entered. Distracted by greek philosophy and trying to keep up, he tripped into the shed and caught a full view of the corpse...which had lain in the summer heat for heaven knew how long....in the very stuffy shed. Whatever Doctor Eckels was saying faded into a dull buzzing sound and Emmerson felt the ground rise to meet him.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates? Sporadically.  
> Plot? HAH.  
> Number of chapters? Who knows.  
> Comments: up to you (comments inspire me to work faster.


End file.
